https://www.nytimes.com/2024/05/12/opinion/mothers-day-son-baseball.html
("Understanding My Son, One Game of Catch at a Time")
There is no sporting endeavor that has captured my heart as much as this. I have spent a lifetime chasing success in athletics, but what has given me the most joy is something not measured in wins and losses but smiles and hugs.
There was a small backyard at my childhood home. Not really big enough for some activities but certainly adequate for the one that mattered most.
I have loved baseball as far back as memory permits. The smell of a new glove, the rubber band around its perimeter, the ball in its belly, shaping the contours of the mitt until it fit the eye of Goldilocks perfectly.
I was one of those whose coordination came quickly and easily. Younger than most to master the mechanics of pitch and catch.
My dad was a natural athlete. Excelling at all endeavors requiring hand eye coordination. An all-American fencer in college but one indication of his capacity.
For a young boy obsessed with baseball, and from the first attached to my father, there was nothing better than stepping into that backyard, ready, willing and anxious to spend time with my dad.
I can still hear the sound of the ball striking its intended target. As the years passed and the speed at which the air gave way increased, the catch was sometimes accompanied by a shake of the gloved hand (signifying intensity) and an almost imperceptible grin from the throw's recipient. That is the image still playing on endless loop all these decades removed.
A generation later, it was my turn to be the father in this scenario. Our backyard a bit bigger than the one I grew up with. Allowing for longer tosses, and with two children, enough space to set up a triangle for our throws. Counting the number of continuous successes until the error sign lit up on either end of this challenge. But, truth be told, neither my son or daughter exhibited the same burning passion as I had many years before. On a scale of one to waking up with a glove on your hand, the applause meter was stuck in neutral.
Now there are two grandchildren directly in my line of sight. The older one not certain at all if she even wants the mitt to encumber her hand. The younger demonstrating the first signs of curiosity but, for the moment, more interested in time spent with his toy trucks than in mastering the intricacies of the curveball and slider.
I have lived an entire life bound first and foremost to family. A simple game, not even a game but an exercise, giving context to my love. Not always fitting as easily as hand in glove. But, learning to adjust expectations to meet reality. Understanding that what is important to one, can not be manufactured for all.
So, if I have to put my mitt down and instead applaud a climb on the monkey bars or yell with delight at the sight of a bike traveling at warp speed, I will survive. Even if I still imagine that space in my daughter's backyard with all of us having a catch. My hand shaking with "pain.” And happiness.
There is time yet....
Mine was basketball. There was always a rim and backboard attached to a garage on the block. I played EVERY DAY! But I did not grow tall enough to make it to a professional team.